The Phoebe Years
by Finn Mac Cool
Summary: Chapter 6: DO IT What is right and what is wrong? Is it sin or self preservation? Is it crime or is it necessary? Phoebe must decide.
1. The Choice

PHOEBE YEARS  
  
Chapter 1: A Choice  
  
Author's Note/ I do not own Friends. Also, I warn all readers that this story contains ANGST! DOUBLE ANGST! HOLY ANGST, BATMAN!  
  
Phoebe Buffet saw the man on the Harley Davidson pull into the driveway. She got a shiver down her spine whenever she saw him. He had a knack for always looking like he hadn't showered or shaved for three days. He was still in his twenties, put there were already sure signs of a potbelly forming. His name was Rick Krendal, but, in her head, Phoebe always called him Creepjob. She didn't care that he had been her stepfather for two years; she hated him.  
  
Creepjob swung off of his motorcycle and onto the driveway. He walked up to the Buffet/Krendal home like he was lord over it. When Creepjob opened the screen door, he saw Phoebe reading a magazine in the living room. She tried to hide the fact that she had been watching him with loathing. "Hey, Sugar," he said as he swung inside the house.  
  
In his pit stained T-shirt and leather pants, Rick Krendal looked deserving of his nickname. Phoebe tried to ignore him, reading her magazine intently. "I said 'Hey, Sugar'," repeated Creepjob.  
  
Phoebe hated being called "Sugar" by this man. He called Phoebe, her mother, and her sister, Ursula, by this name. Coming from Creepjob, it always sounded sick and perverted. Still, she couldn't let him know it bothered her. "Hello," Phoebe responded coldly, not taking her eyes of the article she was pretending to read.  
  
Creepjob didn't get the hint from her attitude; he swaggered over to her. Phoebe felt her gorge rise when he put a hand on her shoulder and looked at her magazine. She tried to turn it so that he couldn't see it, but Creepjob caught her arm and took a good long look at the magazine. Phoebe was only thirteen, but she was already into magazines like "Sixteen". The page she was on showed a blonde woman in a halter-top and tight jeans. Creepjob grinned dirtily.  
  
"You look an awful lot like her, Sugar," he said.  
  
Phoebe honestly tried to make herself look unattractive. She made sure only to wear baggy clothing that wouldn't reveal any cleavage, and had once tried cutting her hair incredibly short, but that just made her look sexier. She couldn't help the fact that she turned her stepfather on.  
  
"How come you never wear clothes like that," Creepjob almost purred.  
  
He was leaning close to her face, his lips right near her ear. Phoebe wanted to punch him, but knew she couldn't. She just shrugged her shoulders and said, "I dunno."  
  
"You'd look really nice if you wore something like that," said Creepjob, stroking her hair, "Yeah, you really would."  
  
Here it comes, Phoebe thought with despair. Just bear through it, and he'll go away.  
  
Creepjob stuck his tongue out a little and actually licked Phoebe's ear. She felt vomit began to form in the back of her throat. Her stepfather didn't stop there, though. He gave her what was supposed to look like a fatherly hug, but was really a grope. His hands were cupped around her breasts. Phoebe noted with some satisfaction that her nipples stayed down. Creepjob brought his whisker-covered face closer to hers. He gave her a shallow, but long, kiss on the lips. He tasted of vodka and moldy potato chips. One hand stayed on her breasts, jiggling them a little, while the other slid down her side.  
  
Oh God, oh God, oh God! Just leave! You've had your little sick thrill, now LEAVE!  
  
He didn't leave. His hand trailed down her side until it came to her pant line. And he didn't stop there. His hand was passing beneath her pants and into her crotch. She felt his hand like a cold piece of meat against her pussy. He circled his hand around until it was on her ass. He gave it a good squeeze. Tears began to form in Phoebe's eyes. She didn't want to lose her virginity this way, not to her perverted stepfather.  
  
Creepjob brought himself around. He was in front of her now; hands still on her boobs and her ass. All over Phoebe's body, her flesh crawled. Creepjob's penis was sticking out like a wooden stake. He was directing it right at Phoebe's crotch. His breathing was very, very deep. His hands were getting busy now. Phoebe felt it on her ass: squeeze, release, squeeze harder, release a little, and squeeze even harder. His other hand was pulling Phoebe's sweater off now. With one last tug, it came off of her like a cork out of a bottle.  
  
Please, stop it! I don't want you to do this to me! I don't want you in my body!  
  
Her breasts were exposed now except for what her bra covered. His hand tried to slip the bra off, rubbing against her breasts as it did. Creepjob's other hand was taken out of her pants and was now unzipping his own.  
  
Don't! For the love of God, don't!  
  
Her bra came down and her breasts were fully revealed to him. He picked up one and held it gently before turning it. Phoebe gave a little squeak of pain, but either Creepjob mistook it for pleasure, or he was some sort of sadist. Either way, his penis was fully erect and fully exposed now. He leaned over Phoebe and the erection pressed into her belly. His dirty T-shirt was rubbing against her breasts now. One of Creepjob's hands was pulling Phoebe's pants down, now. Only a thin layer of underwear was left before he could really fuck her. He brought his grimy face to hers, just after whispering, "Daddy's coming, Sugar."  
  
His tongue was in her mouth! It was slithering around her own like a snake. Phoebe felt her panties yanked off. He was about to do it!  
  
NO!  
  
Phoebe did two things at once. She bit down, hard. A lot of flesh was ripped off of Creepjob's tongue. Second, she brought her knee forward and kicked his penis with all her might.  
  
"AHHHHHARGH!" he said through a bleeding tongue. His voice was unusually high and he was clutching his dick like it might fall off. He was writhing around on the floor like somebody having a very severe seizure. Phoebe leaped off the chair and ran up the stairs to her room, taking all her clothes with her. She didn't care that she was leaving her stepfather on the floor like that. She just wanted the feel of privacy and clothes separating her from other people.  
  
She curled up underneath her covers after getting fully clothed. She lay there and shivered. Creepjob had tried to fuck her. He had kissed her before and had grabbed her breasts or ass a few times, but this was the first time he had actually tried to put his prick into her. She wanted to vomit. Instead, she got horrible shivers of disgust.  
  
A half hour later, a car pulled up in the driveway. Phoebe knew it was her mother, Ellie Krendal (formerly Ellie Buffet). She heard the door swing open. But she didn't hear a scream. Phoebe had expected that her mother, once she found her husband lying naked on the floor, and in a lot of pain, she would scream before calling the ambulance, and maybe even the police. But there wasn't the sound of a scream. Phoebe heard her mother say a few sentences, and then stop. Then there came the sound of her mother's footsteps climbing the stairs.  
  
Ellie Buffet knocked on the door to her daughter's room. "Come in," said Phoebe, curling up deeper into her blankets.  
  
Phoebe's mother walked in. She was a little overweight and wrinkles and gray hairs were beginning to appear, but she could still be considered pretty by many people. Ellie saw her daughter's head poke out a little from under the covers. She walked over the Phoebe's bed and put a hand on her shoulder. Phoebe shivered a little more at this human contact. It reminded her of Creepjob.  
  
"Phoebe," said her mother, "he tried to screw you?"  
  
Phoebe brought her whole head out of the covers and looked at her mom. She was a little surprised that she would talk about it so frankly. Phoebe only nodded in response. Elli sighed, and tears trickled down her cheek.  
  
"Before now," she asked, emotion almost clogging her throat, "has he ever-"  
  
"No, Mom," said Phoebe, now squeezing her mother's hand, "I'm a virgin."  
  
A small smile came to Ellie's lips. "That's good. I've caught him at it before. Staring at you, hugging you a little too often, touching things that shouldn't be touched. I even talked to him about it. He said he was just being affectionate and that I was blowing things out of proportion." More tears leaked out of Ellie's eyes. "The idea that he might try to do something to you wouldn't let me sleep at night. Pheebs, I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."  
  
Ellie hugged her daughter deeply. Phoebe cried, too. She had been only a few seconds away from being raped by her own stepfather. She was glad her mother was here now. When they broke apart, Phoebe could see that her mother was trying to collect herself. "Pheebs, there is a decision I need you to make quickly. I've called the hospital. They'll be here in minutes. They'll want to know how this happened. There are two stories we could tell them. We could tell the truth, that he was trying to have-have sex with you, and you fought back. Or we could say that I was having sex with him and it was just an accident."  
  
Phoebe stared at her mother, first in shock, and then in anger. "You want to defend that Creepjob!" shouted Phoebe, speaking her stepfather's nickname for the first time, "He tried to fuck me! He tried to rape me!"  
  
"I know, honey, and I am so, so sorry," said Ellie, crying again, "But I've lost my job, and Rick is the only thing keeping us from being homeless. Pheebs, I need for you to decide. If you want to tell the truth, I will support you one hundred percent. We'll send him to jail. But, just remember, as much as you may hate him, and as much as I do now, Rick is our provider. Please, Phoebe, you're the only one who can make this choice."  
  
Phoebe thought about it. She had the chance to get rid of Creepjob forever. To send him to jail for what he had tried to do to her. But her mother needed him. She needed his money. It would break her mother's spirit if she wouldn't be able to feed her family. And, if Creepjob did come back, he probably wouldn't try anything with her again.  
  
In the distance, Phoebe heard a wailing siren. The ambulance. Ellie heard it too. She needed Phoebe to decide quickly. Suddenly, Phoebe leaped out of her bed and ran downstairs. She saw her stepfather, forever known to her as Creepjob, lying on the floor. She hated him more than she had ever hated another human being. She wanted to kick him in the balls again while he was lying on the floor, barely conscious. But images kept flashing into her mind. No food, ratty clothes, forced to leave in sewer gutters. The fear of losing all her material possessions was great.  
  
The sirens were almost there. Phoebe turned around and saw her mother at the foot of the stairs. She was looking at Phoebe. "You decide, Pheebs," she said.  
  
Phoebe looked down at the sorry sack of meat that was her stepfather. She remembered his disgusting embrace of her. She remembered how he pulled off her clothes. She remembered having to feel his throbbing erection through her clothes. The ambulance was right outside. Paramedics burst into the living room. Decide now, Phoebe!  
  
"This man tried to rape me!" yelled Phoebe to the doctors. They looked at her, stunned for a second.  
  
"I said he tried to rape me!" shouted Phoebe again, "He tried to rape me, and I kicked him in the balls! Now take him to a hospital before I send him to jail!"  
  
The doctors rushed Rick Krendal/Creepjob onto a stretcher and into an ambulance. Phoebe heard her mother's sobs. They were going to lose everything they owned. With her stepfather no longer in the building, Phoebe's anger ebbed. She realized what she had done. She plopped down on the floor and cried. Everything gone, all because her stepfather was a raping pervert. Over the next year, as the Buffet home was repossessed and the bank account vanished, Phoebe would cry many times. And her crying would always include the mantra, "That Creepjob ruined everything." 


	2. The Discovery

THE PHOEBE YEARS  
  
Author's Note/ All right, if you don't like gruesome description, or EXTREME angst, I suggest you click that old exit button right now. I'm not kidding; do not read if such content offends you. Also, I don't own Friends, though I do own a TV show called Pals. It's basically the same thing, except it only exists in my head and Phoobie, Mornica and Rachael can't wait to sleep with me.  
  
Chapter II: The Discovery  
  
"Hey, Ursula, could you help me find some arms?"  
  
"Uh, no," Phoebe's sister hollered back.  
  
It was a crisp, December morning. Phoebe Buffet had nearly finished what she called "a really, really cool snowman". Even at fourteen, Phoebe still loved to play in the snow. However, her twin, Ursula, was not at all interested in snowmen. She was into real men, mainly the cute, Italian guy who lived across the street. Ursula made a habit of watching him as he shoveled his driveway.  
  
Sighing at her twin's indifference, Phoebe went to collect sticks for snowman arms herself. She trotted through the snow, giving off misty wraiths as she breathed. There was only one tree in the Buffet yard, but it supplied plenty of dead sticks in winter. Around its base, Phoebe went searching for arms. There were plenty of sticks, but Phoebe needed perfect arms. She had spent the last hour working on her snowman, and she wanted it to be the best ever. Phoebe needed something good to hold onto while the rest of her life was falling apart.  
  
Don't think about Creepjob. Don't think about money. You're building a snowman today and you're going to be happy.  
  
Obeying this inner voice, Phoebe pushed aside her troubles and went crawling through the snow in search of sticks. Finding perfect snowman arms was not easy. Some sticks were too long, while others were to short. Some had too many branches, while others had too few to work as fingers.  
  
It was then that she spotted her goal. Above Phoebe's head, sticking out of the tree, were two perfect arms. They were the same length as human arms and had a little curve where the elbow should be. Also, each stick split into five different directions at the end, perfectly imitating a human hand. Finding one such stick would have been called lucky; finding two was a miracle.  
  
At first, Phoebe did nothing. Those sticks were so perfect that she gazed up at them in wonder. Then, she jumped for them. Unfortunately, she didn't jump very far. The sticks were too far up for her to grasp. Futilely, Phoebe jumped for the sticks again and again. They were perfect, but just out of reach!  
  
Come on, you stupid sticks! You're going to be arms! Let me get you! Arrgh!  
  
Then, Phoebe remembered there were hedge clippers in the house. With those she could just cut them down. Slightly embarrassed at having jumped so much for nothing, Phoebe hurried off to the house.  
  
Lily Buffet's house was far from great. She didn't have a job, and her third husband had been sent to prison for trying to rape Phoebe. Without a job of her own, Lily couldn't afford to keep the home in good repair. The paint on the sides was coming off, the wooden front porch was beginning to dilapidate, and the inside was very messy.  
  
A lot of the time, Phoebe's heart became pained when she entered the house. It was a reminder of how poor off she and her family were. But today, with the promise of the world's best snowman arms for the world's best snowman, Phoebe didn't have time for sorrow. She burst into the living room, carelessly dragging snow across the floor.  
  
"Hey, Mom, where do we keep the hedge clippers?" Phoebe called.  
  
There wasn't an answer. She then saw that her mother had set two steaming mugs of hot cocoa and some brownies on the coffee table. Realizing she was cold and kind of hungry, Phoebe took a cautious sip from the mug. Lily Buffet knew how to make a good cup of chocolate, and the brownie was great. Carrying her snack, Phoebe started to walk towards the kitchen. Still no sign of her mother.  
  
"Mom, where are you?" called Phoebe.  
  
Once more, there wasn't an answer. One foot in the kitchen. Second foot. Head in. Looking. Oh my God! Oh, sweet God NO! NO! NONONONO!  
  
Lying on the kitchen floor was Lily Buffet. Her limp body smelled like copper. The smell was the smell of blood. Lily had taken a kitchen knife and cut her wrists. Phoebe could see the blood, her mother's life, draining out of her flesh. A weird, relieved grin twisted Lily Buffet's face.  
  
With a jolt Phoebe jumped backwards several feet. She landed on her shin and smashed a couple fingers, but didn't care. Quite instantly she got up and ran, ran, ran! Phoebe wanted away from that body, away from that blood.  
  
My mother isn't dead! I saw nothing! Nothing! No, she isn't dead. That can't happen today. I'm building a snowman today. BAD THINGS DON'T HAPPEN WHEN YOU'RE BUILDING A SNOWMAN!  
  
A deafening crash came to Phoebe's ears. In her startled state, when she turned to see where it came from, she lost all balance and fell into the snow. Pulling herself up, the fourteen-year-old girl saw the tree. The snow had caused the dead branches to fall to the ground. Despite the importance of what had happened inside (It didn't happen! Nothing is wrong! Nobody is dead!), this struck Phoebe deep. For she knew, in her heart, that the world's most perfect snowman arms had been destroyed.  
  
Falling back to the ground, tiny bits of the snow melted under Phoebe's tears. They were perfect and now they're gone! She was perfect and now she's gone! No! No! No! No! NO! 


	3. New Life

THE PHOEBE YEARS  
  
Author's Note/ To those of you who commented on me getting the names wrong (in the first chapter I mistook the name of Phoebe's mom to be Ellie, and in the second chapter I allegedly misspelled the last name "Buffay" as "Buffet") I have two responses. As far as Lily goes, I had trouble remembering her name, but knew vaguely what it sounded like. As for "Buffay" and "Buffet", when have you ever seen Phoebe's last name spelled? It might be spelled B-U-F-F-E-T, for all we know. However, I'll use B-U-F- F-A-Y to avoid an argument. As always, I don't own Friends, and there is enough angst in here that make Pee Wee Herman depressed. Also, please review. Hey, I review when I read YOUR fics!  
  
Chapter III: New Life  
  
If you have the right means, New York is a great place to live, filled with glamour and scenery. But, if you're poor, it is a wasteland. This was a fact that Phoebe Buffay knew quite well.  
  
She was certainly an attractive girl. Her blonde hair and rounded face gave her a sense of childlike sweetness. That is, they would have, if she weren't baring that 'mad at the world/don't mess with me' scowl. Phoebe had been living on the streets for six months now, and she had grown so that she tolerated it. Never loved it. Her life had no beauty in it. She had only one shirt and one pair of pants, both too big for her small frame. Her home was an old Ford that had been vandalized and worn down to such an extent that even the crooks that prowled the streets didn't want it. Phoebe's days were often spent crawling along the gutter and looking pathetic to get pity money.  
  
A dollar fluttered down in front of Phoebe. She took it and thanked the old man who had given it to her. The money this man gave away without a care was lifeblood to Phoebe. A dollar, if used wisely, might someday save her from starving or getting pneumonia. A young couple walked by Phoebe. She was kneeling down by the street, holding out her hands and forcing tears into her eyes as she looked on, pleadingly. The man and woman, probably without even knowing it, averted their eyes and walked past her.  
  
On most days, this happened to Phoebe at least a dozen times. The fact was: successful people didn't want to look at poor people. Maybe they didn't want to believe that something existed outside their cozy, little, middle-class world. Maybe they felt guilty for not giving to charity. Maybe they were afraid that poverty was catching, and that eye contact could give them the "gutter-trash bug".  
  
Sunset. Phoebe didn't want to be begging after dark. There wouldn't be many people out, and getting exposed to the cold when you didn't have a heated home to crawl into was dangerous. Therefore, Phoebe left the street and went down an alley, carrying a few more dollars with her then she had before.  
  
Phoebe walked past vandalized walls, passed out drunks, overturned garbage cans, and had a close call with a big man carrying chains. She had to be careful. There were people in the darker side of New York that would rape her without a thought to decency. But Phoebe was careful. On her way through the alleys, she stayed to the shadows and little traveled portions. At last she reached the car.  
  
It was abandoned in a dead end alley, missing its tires and engine, as well as being beat up to the extreme. Despite all this, the Ford was her home. As Phoebe approached the car, she heard somebody talking in it. When she opened the door, she saw Sidney.  
  
Sidney was worse off than Phoebe had ever been. He had been born into a poor, drunk/junkie family. He had been living by his wits for the past six years. His body was thin and pale from never getting enough to eat, and he twitched from some unknown disorder. But Sidney's experiences had affected him in a way that could not be caught at a first glimpse. He was insane. On a regular basis, he talked to his hand. During these one sided conversations, Sidney tuned out the rest of the world. He talked to that limb, sometimes is English, but other times with a strange, almost autistic series of grunts and odd noises.  
  
Now was one of those times when Sidney was communing with his hand. Phoebe brushed past him and climbed into the Ford's backseat. A somewhat moldy apple and half a box of KFC were waiting for her there. Phoebe ate ravenously, devouring half of the remaining chicken and the entire apple. Her meal gone, Phoebe decided to sleep. The Ford's actual seats were vinyl that had many, many rips on it that exposed the stuffing. To compensate with this, it was covered in newspapers that Phoebe used as a blanket.  
  
Memories came back to Phoebe in her sleep. She felt large, greasy hands pulling away her clothes and fondling her. She felt Creepjob, her former stepfather, squeezing her breasts. She smelled his potato chip breath. She experienced disgust once more as Creepjob exposed his erection to her. She saw his throbbing organ. Nausea and cold shivers swept over her.  
  
The shivering wasn't just from the memory. It was cold inside the car, and the newspapers offered little protection. Phoebe woke up to darkness. There weren't any streetlights around here, so it was a truly impenetrable cloud of darkness. How did I come to this? This isn't how my life was supposed to turn out?  
  
Phoebe heard a voice. It was Sidney's. Usually when he talked to his hand, he spoke in an invented language so strange that Phoebe only understood a single word now and then. But tonight, for some reason, he was speaking in English.  
  
"She says there was blood. Lots of it. Weren't pretty, from what I here. Yeah, I agree. Horrible thing to lose her. Yep, you're right. Yeah, that's probably true."  
  
Phoebe tuned out Sidney's one-sided conversation. It made her sad to hear it; it reminded her of how truly wrong his mind was. If he and Phoebe hadn't been working together to survive, she doubted he would survive, and Phoebe wasn't all that sure that she would live if she didn't have Sidney.  
  
Sleep comes. But it is never a sweet, peaceful sleep for Phoebe Buffay. It hasn't been for a long while. No, she is right there, in the kitchen. She's wearing the coat and gloves she had worn that December day. But she didn't run away this time. Her mind told her body to run away from the horrible sight, but the body wouldn't respond. At least turn away! Why can't I move? Why do I have to look at this?  
  
Lily Buffay rises from the floor, her eyes dead and blank white. Her fingers curl like a bird's talons around the bloody knife. Her blood gushes onto the tiles. As Phoebe Buffay sees her mother's blood fall, she knows that life as she knows it is spilling just as chaotically. Phoebe wants to scream as she sees Lily's corpse take a step towards her. Phoebe's voice seems forever in coming, but at last it escapes.  
  
"Why did you do this to yourself? Why did you do this to me? Don't let yourself die?" Phoebe shrieks angrily, but her voice switches to a sobbing grovel, "Please, please, don't do this. Mom, you're – you're dying."  
  
"I am dead," says the blood soaked body.  
  
The warmth and humanity of Lily Buffay's voice is gone. It is a mechanical sound, devoid of emotion. She is dead, even though she walks. The body approaches Phoebe, who can't move, no matter what she commands her flesh to do. Then, the blow comes. Phoebe is knocked to the floor with stunning speed. Her mother – no, her mother's empty carcass – beats her again and again and again.  
  
"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!" shouts Phoebe inside her own head, "YOU'RE KILLING MY ENTIRE LIFE! IT'S YOUR FAULT! IT'S YOUR FAULT THAT I'M MAKING MY LIVING THROUGH BEGGING! IT'S YOUR FAULT I LIVE IN A CAR! MY WHOLE MISERABLE, ROTTEN, HOPELESS LIFE IS YOUR FAULT!"  
  
Phoebe woke up. Dawn was here. Despite the cold of the night, Phoebe was covered in sweat. Sidney was gone, most likely to find food. She didn't want to get up. She wanted to lay beneath the newspapers forever. As long as she was here, she wouldn't feel the blows given by her mother's death. The moment Phoebe went out for another day of crawling through the gutter, Lily's death would begin hitting her down to the kitchen floor again and again. She couldn't fight a corpse. She couldn't fight death. Phoebe couldn't fight at all anymore. Instead, she cried. She cried and cried and cried until there just wasn't enough water in her to cry anymore.  
  
She needed water. Literally crawling along the pavement outside the car, Phoebe came to a puddle left by a drainpipe. She lapped up the water like some pathetic dog. Phoebe tried hard not to think about it. She tried hard not to think about a lot of things. A person could only endure so much before they forced themselves not to think about everything wrong with their lives. But, in dreams, you can't help but think. Not bothering to think philosophy, for there was none which could uplift her spirits, Phoebe stood up and went out to beg, grovel, and debase herself for money. No, don't think, Phoebe. It will only upset you. Don't think. Don't think. Don't think. 


	4. Alone

THE PHOEBE YEARS  
  
Author's Note/ I am SO sorry it took so long for me to get this chapter written. I've been busy with a lot of things recently. I don't own Friends, no matter how much I beg NBC. Let all readers beware: I have put as much angst into this as possible. If it results in severe mental trauma, don't blame me; you were warned. Also, thank you to Kimmy Larisa and Teacherchez for being frequent reviewers.  
  
Chapter IV: Alone  
  
"Hey babe."  
  
Phoebe whirled around to see who had spoken. Standing beside a chain-link fence was a man about eighteen years old. He was wearing a leather jacket that looked like he had just stolen it from the Fanz. His hair was long and uncombed, while plenty of stubble grew around his face. Clamped between his teeth was an unlit joint, while his hands clasped a chain.  
  
Phoebe and the guy were deep inside an alley, so deep that no police would dare enter. The guy's eyes seemed almost red, and actually glowed in the light of the sun. He bared his teeth as he ground them into the marijuana. There was no doubt about it: this guy was as dangerous as a steel blade.  
  
"I said 'Hey babe'," repeated the guy, taking a large step closer to Phoebe.  
  
"Hey," Phoebe said in a hoarse whisper.  
  
Quickly, she tried to back away from him. The guy was having none of that, though. He quickly moved behind Phoebe blocked her path. He grinned so much that Phoebe was afraid he would reveal a set of shark's teeth way in the back.  
  
"Name's Jake, baby," said the guy as he set a muscular hand on Phoebe's shoulder.  
  
Suddenly, his grip tightened. Phoebe gritted her teeth as Jake's muscular fingers dug into her. "Yeah, that's how they all look," he said mischievously.  
  
"Whaddayawant," Phoebe said quickly.  
  
"Well," said Jake, pretending he had to think hard about that, "you see, I'm sort of a big man around here. I'm kind of like this neighborhood's version of the Godfather. I do something for people, and they do something for me. Nice arrangement, isn't it?"  
  
"Utopian," Phoebe replied, gazing down at the asphalt to avoid Jake's vampire eyes.  
  
"Well, I've already done something for you," said Jake, making his grip on Phoebe's shoulder so tight that she wanted to cry, "I haven't hurt you anymore than squeezing you a little. And, believe me, I can hurt you a lot more than that."  
  
He grinned, and Phoebe was reminded of Creepjob. She had seen that same look in his eyes while he was undressing her. Rape was on Jake's mind. Well, why not. Phoebe's life was already miserable.  
  
And having some guy force his thing inside you is going to change that?  
  
"My you're quiet," said Jake, rubbing the hand not holding the chain along her side, "and maybe that's a good thing. You see, around here, women do two things: they either do it without a word, or they do it screaming. I don't think you're the screaming type, Sugar."  
  
God, he was like a younger Creepjob. He had even adopted her stepfather's odious nickname for Phoebe. Could she give this guy a kick in the balls?  
  
"Ah!" Phoebe shouted.  
  
Jake had apparently gotten bored with just threatening, so he slapped his chain across her face. An enormous red mark was branded onto her skin.  
  
"Bastard," she yelled.  
  
Jake didn't seem bothered by this comment; guys like him took pride in being bastards, sons of bitches, and Creepjobs.  
  
"I know what you were thinking," he said in a whisper so quiet it was menacing, "you were thinking you'll let me pull down my pants than give me a good old kick. Well, Sugar, I don't play that game."  
  
With a burst of strength, Jake thrust Phoebe to the ground. The back of her head slapped against the concrete, briefly making her mind cloud. Jake was standing over her, chain still in hand. With revulsion, Phoebe noticed the enormous bulge in Jake's pants. Creepjob all over again.  
  
"Let's see those legs spread, slut," said Jake.  
  
Phoebe tried to resist, but a moment latter her legs were spread into a triangle. Fear of what Jake might do with that chain forced her. She closed her eyes tight, blocking out whatever sickening things she might see. But she could block out all her senses.  
  
She felt his hands, callused and strong, pull her pants down in one quick motion. It felt kind of like a rope burn. Of course, that was the least of her problems. One hand, the one even now grasping the chain with a few fingers, felt Phoebe's breasts through her shirt before tweaking the nipples.  
  
He's Creepjob. I don't care how different he looks, this guy IS Creepjob! His erection is up right now; I know it. He's about to press it in. Oh God!  
  
Suddenly, the hand on Phoebe's breasts pulled away sharply. She opened her eyes as she heard a very loud thud. Instead of Jake standing over her, seeming to glow with menace, he was sprawled on the pavement. His chain, his precious, power-giving chain, was lying several feet away. Phoebe noted with joy that he was clutching a bruised eye.  
  
"Phoebes, you all right?"  
  
Phoebe looked up and almost cried for joy. It was Sidney! Sure he was insane, but he had just knocked Creepjob incarnate down!  
  
"Fine," Phoebe managed to say.  
  
"Fucking bastard," Jake said as he lunged for his chain.  
  
Before his Jake's hand could make its fatal clutch on its weapon, Sidney gave Jake a sharp, strong kick in the belly.  
  
"Sonofabitch," the would-be-rapist cursed, barely above a whisper.  
  
"Keep away from her abbalah!" yelled Sidney in a mixture of English and his own, invented language, "If you geshun Phoebe, I'll broksed murder you."  
  
Sidney leaned down and picked up Jake's chain. The balance of power had just changed dramatically. Jake look with scared eyes as a literal lunatic whipped the chain back and forth while shouting, "Pickun broksed kill ratwer Phoebe. TWURPIC!"  
  
With that last, nonsense word, Sidney whipped Jake's chest with the chain. Jake quickly scurried/ran away, with Sidney cursing in his invented language behind him. Phoebe sighed with immeasurable relief. Finding her pants nearby, Phoebe hastily pulled them on. She had come a lot closer to being truly raped with the original Creepjob than she had with Jake, but it had still unnerved her. If Sidney hadn't come, Phoebe would be losing her virginity to that punk at that moment.  
  
"Sidney, oh my God, you are wonderful," Phoebe said.  
  
Sidney blushed at this compliment. As far as Phoebe was concerned now, Sidney could do no wrong. Maybe life wasn't such a bitch after all.  
  
* * *  
  
Phoebe awoke in the middle of her car/home. What was that? It was the middle of the night in no-streetlamp country, so Phoebe couldn't see what was going on. It sounded like whatever was going on was coming from outside the car. Pushing herself up, the newspaper blanket rustling as she did, Phoebe whispered, "Sidney?"  
  
No answer. Phoebe didn't dare speak louder in case it was a group of looters making the noise. Quietly, Phoebe got off her seat and crawled forward in the car. She felt along the floor and the seats for her friend. There was no sound of Sidney's snoring or conversations with his hand. No matter where Phoebe felt, she couldn't find him.  
  
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"  
  
Phoebe didn't jump, instead, she became extremely, extremely still. Somebody was screaming just outside the old Ford. Briefly, though, Phoebe caught another voice laughing. It sent a chill down her spine. She crawled underneath one of the Ford's seats and waited.  
  
There was no light, so there was absolutely nothing to distract Phoebe from the screaming. The voice came to her again and again. She curled up more underneath the chair, hoping and praying that whoever was in pain would stop. Stop screaming! Please, for the love of God, stop screaming! Stop!  
  
And it did. The screaming quickly died away to a gurgling sound, and then into nothing. A sinister chuckle interrupted the stillness left by the pained one's passing. Phoebe knew the voice, but she would not say the name. Never say that name, not even in your own mind, or its owner might come for you.  
  
Phoebe did not sleep. She could not. She lay awake in the car, in the dark. The hours dragged by like weeks. She just lay there, hoping and praying that she had not heard those noises. Dear God, let them just be part of my imagination.  
  
After an eternity of being in darkness, dawn began to break. Light came into the car, making things look almost normal. But they weren't. Nothing was normal. Nothing could ever be normal until Phoebe knew whether those screams during the night had been real. Like an animal driven solely by instinct, she crept up and prepared to open the door.  
  
There is nothing out there. Nothing happened during the dark time. Everything is all right. Everything is NORMAL.  
  
She opened the door to reveal Sidney's body, horribly beaten, throat slit, and with a mocking chain lying on his chest.  
  
Phoebe screamed. 


	5. What Has To Be Done

THE PHOEBE YEARS  
  
Author's Note/ Well, to make up for how long Chapter 4 took, I'm going to get this one out pretty quickly. Notice to all NBC lawyers: I don't own Friends but I'm not making any money! Also, the readers should be warned that this story has super sized angst with a side of curly fries (the fries are mine, though, you're stuck with the angst).  
  
Chapter 5: What Has To Be Done  
  
I'm sixteen today. Well, whoopie for me.  
  
Phoebe Buffay listened to the manager with growing sorrow and anger. We're sorry, but we have found another person who meets our expectations to a greater extent. I am so sorry a job couldn't be found for you here. Phoebe knew the guy didn't want to tell her the bad news. He could tell from her clothing that she was poor and probably living on the streets. He knew that a job, a well paying job, meant more to her than almost anything. But she didn't get it. Rot in hell, bastard. You had your chance to do a good deed and you blew it. I'm out of here.  
  
Phoebe left the manager's office and entered the supermarket. People pushed their carts down white aisles, putting food and other items into it. Meals would be prepared with that food. Large, hot meals, with plenty for seconds and dessert.  
  
If they realized how desperate I am, would they give me some food?  
  
Phoebe liked to think they would. Since her mother had died, leaving her homeless and broke, Phoebe had been living far from privilege. But, now that Sidney was gone  
  
Dead  
  
she was barely surviving. Getting a job at the supermarket could have saved her. It would have given her a steady flow of money to buy food with, and maybe even a blanket to ward off the cold. But that hope, like all the others Phoebe had nurtured while on the street, had died.  
  
She past by rows and rows of fruit. Bright, vibrant, and life giving. Phoebe needed food. She didn't need it in the way that a teenager coming home for a snack needs food. Her attempts at begging had brought in less and less money lately, and she didn't have anything to eat. She hadn't eaten a thing yesterday, and she didn't think she could survive for long like that.  
  
She could take the fruit. She could smuggle out a single banana. How would it hurt the store to lose something so small? The alarm wouldn't be set off because Phoebe would find a secluded spot to eat inside the store and stash the peel. It would all be so simple. A mother with her child riding in the cart was right behind her. Best to let them pass. Phoebe didn't want anybody stopping her.  
  
She moved to the right and slowed down. The mother and child went right past her. There was an advantage to being poor: if you wanted to sneak around, people tried not to notice you. Now is the time, Phoebe thought. Slowly, she edged towards the rows of bananas. She would just take one and be off to eat it. Just one.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
Phoebe whirled around in surprise. Standing there was a man somewhere in his fifties. His hairline was very far back, and what hair he had left was gray. He had a slight potbelly and a kind of pudgy face. He wore a tan suit and some very expensive-looking shoes. He was eyeing Phoebe intently. Had he spotted her about to take the banana?  
  
No, that wasn't it. There was something in his eyes that was familiar. Had she met this man before? No, she hadn't. It wasn't actually his features she remembered; it was the look coming from his eyes: lust. He was looking over her body like a hungry bloodhound. Phoebe had been forced to get rid of the baggy pants and shirt she had used to wear. Now she was wearing ones that were too tight. So tight that they gave this man a very nice view of her cleavage. That look in his eyes was something Phoebe dreaded. It was the look she had received from Creepjob and Jake. He wanted her body to be his own.  
  
"I wasn't taking anything," Phoebe said quickly.  
  
"I don't suppose a girl like you could afford it, anyway," said the man.  
  
He walked closer to her. Phoebe knew he couldn't try to rape her in the middle of a grocery store, but she shrunk from that gaze.  
  
"Leave me alone," she said.  
  
Even in her own ears it sounded weak. It made this man smile. "Tell me, what's your name?"  
  
She didn't want to tell him. She didn't want to give this guy any more knowledge of her than he had just by looking. "Ursula," she said at last.  
  
The man took another step closer. And another. "Well, Ursula, I'm Thomas Jones. I'm a decent, Christian man. I volunteer at a homeless shelter several miles. I've grown so I can sense people like you, who are down on their luck."  
  
"The only thing you sense is your dick," said Phoebe.  
  
Thomas Jones's face grew stern.  
  
"That's not a nice thing to say, Ursula, especially to a man who can help you."  
  
"You can't help me," said Phoebe.  
  
"Oh, but I can," said Jones, a twinkle coming into his face, "We're in a grocery store, after all. When I meet someone down on her luck financially, and in such a place, it is my sacred duty to get her whatever food she needs."  
  
He took a step closer to her and examined the curve of Phoebe's breasts through her T-shirt. "As long as she understands," said Jones, "that I have needs that cannot be fulfilled by food."  
  
"What you need is a punch in the gut," said Phoebe.  
  
Desperately, she tried to keep up her tough girl attitude, but Jones wasn't buying it. "What would you say to two hundred dollars worth of food? Enough cans of soup and preserved fruit to last you a while, no doubt?"  
  
Two hundred dollars! Phoebe had never had that much money at one time in her life. But, this guy was a pervert! He may have been older than her stepfather, and not as strong as Jake, but he was still that same guy: he was one of the many forms of Creepjob. She would never let him do anything! She would-  
  
He reached out and clasped one of her breasts. Jones just kept his hand there, waiting for Phoebe to react. She didn't. He began to stroke it. Still, Phoebe did nothing.  
  
"Well," said Jones, "I think you can spare five minutes for so much."  
  
Jones moved the hand to her ass and gave it a squeeze. Phoebe should have screamed or slapped him. She should have kicked him in the crotch and told him to go to hell. But she just stood there, and was both surprised, depressed, and disgusted to hear her mouth say the words, "All right."  
  
She was led out of the supermarket by Mr. Thomas Jones. Before they left, he loaded a cart full of canned food, as well as buying Phoebe a can opener. He paid the cashier, and Phoebe didn't pull back. They went to the parking lot and loaded the stuff into his trunk, and Phoebe said nothing. He took her for a ride, and she did nothing. She sat in that car for fifteen minutes, fourteen and a half minutes more than enough time to back out, but she just sat there.  
  
At last, they came to there. It was a motel, like many Phoebe had passed by. The walls were mildewing, the rooms were extraordinarily cheap, and there were probably roaches everywhere. As Jones led Phoebe inside, they passed a woman in black leather pants and a gold bikini. Her face look forty, but her body was still in pretty good condition. She was a whore. She had probably been selling her body to strangers since she was Phoebe's age.  
  
This is your future, kiddo. Go with Creepjob (he IS Creepjob, just in a different body is all) and that will be you. You'll spend the next twenty years of your life lying down on ratty motel beds and letting whatever dickhead happens to walk by stick his little self into you.  
  
But that food! I'm so hungry. It will just be this one time.  
  
That's probably what that woman said on her seventeenth birthday: just this one time.  
  
Phoebe's thoughts were entirely elsewhere as Jones paid for a room and led Phoebe to it. Upon entering, Phoebe felt like she had just passed into a landfill and taken a bath in whatever liquid happened to pool up in there. There was filth everywhere. But, neither of them were planning to stay long.  
  
Suddenly, Phoebe was pushed down. She landed on a mattress covered in blue flowers. It smelled like a cat's litter box. Jones/Creepjob began kneeling on the bed. He said something, but Phoebe didn't catch it. She was concentrating on the blue flowers.  
  
Creepjob's hand came to her body again. They pawed over her flesh like hunting dogs. They fondled her in places she thought she would rather die than let him touch. Her shirt was yanked off of her (no matter what his form, Creepjob never undressed her easily) and her breasts were in plain view. Creepjob turned her over to face him. His face was leering with unsuppressed desire. His hands rubbed over her breasts and tweaked her nipples.  
  
His head leaned down and licked the side of her face. With utter disgust Phoebe felt his slimy saliva left behind. He continued to lick her face, her lips, her oh-so-bare breasts while his hands undid her pants and slipped them down. Then, Creepjob got busy on his own clothes. His shirt, suit, pants, and shoes all ended up on the floor. He was completely naked.  
  
Quickly, Phoebe closed her eyes, but not before the image of Creepjob's pimply, chubby, and FILTHY body was burned into her brain. She kept her eyes closed and thought of flowers. She thought of flowers as his erection (tiny, but just big enough to work) pressed against her vagina. Phoebe just kept thinking of flowers as Creepjob actually became INSIDE of her.  
  
Then, the intensity came. It was not pleasure, but it wasn't all pain. There was plenty of pain as Creepjob's dick scraped against her tender flesh, but there was also sheer intensity. It felt like she was a balloon being filled with air. The pressure was growing greater and greater in her crotch, and it was spreading through her body. She felt warmth, sickening like a sticky summer day, spread through her. She felt her body heave up and down, up and down. Creepjob's penis throbbed inside her, grating nerve ending and sending bolt after bolt of shock through Phoebe's body. Her entire being was filled with pitching vibrancy. She groaned and screamed, and she kept silent. She didn't want her body to be doing this. Her body's bucking and turning was mortifying. This man, this Creepjob, was making her do this.  
  
Then, it stopped. Creepjob pulled away. Phoebe just lay there on the bed, panting. Flowers, she thought, blue flowers. Yes, there are only blue flowers in this world, even though you can feel his sticky cum clinging to your legs. There are only flowers here even though your vagina aches like a giant Charlie Horse. I don't care if that Creepjob was on me, through me, IN me, there are only BLUE FLOWERS HERE!  
  
Phoebe cried. She cried and cried until there were no more tears. Her body was no longer her own. Creepjob had it. He had made it buck and groan and respond to his urges. He had been inside her, and had taken something so precious from her. Creepjob, after all these years, had gotten his sick little thrill. 


	6. Do It

THE PHOEBE YEARS  
  
Chapter 6: Do It  
  
The sun was going down.  
  
Looking out of the long-broken ford, Phoebe could see the array of colors that heralded the coming of night. When it's dark. I'll do it when it's dark.  
  
Perhaps the sky heard Phoebe's thoughts, because darkness came swiftly. It's time. No, a few more minutes. What, are you afraid? No, I just want to make sure I really want to do this. If I go out there now, there's no turning back. Come on, don't be a wimp. I'm sure Mom wouldn't want to have a coward for a daughter. Stop it! Follow through with the plan and I will! All right, all right!  
  
Gathering her resolve, Phoebe reached under the Ford's seat and pulled out the gun.  
  
* * *  
  
A bell rang as Phoebe entered the store. Behind her were shadows in places broken by New York's continued parade of lights. In front of her was the extreme brightness of the convenience store. The cashier turned towards her. He looked to be about eighteen, a year younger than Phoebe. His uniform was an extremely ugly striped shirt with a nametag reading "Paul".  
  
Paul, great, thought Phoebe. This would be so much easier if he was just a nameless face.  
  
Paul watched Phoebe. She wore a pair of old jeans and an old, green t-shirt that were both too small for her. Her hair was oily and there were unwashed patches of dirt over her skin. Her eyes were sunken into their sockets, a clear sign of not getting enough to eat. It was clear to Paul that this girl was starving. But he also sensed something when he looked into his eyes that brought nervousness to him. She was desperate. Somewhere along the line she had just taken one too many beatings from life. And this made him afraid.  
  
"Welcome to Q-Mart," Paul said, trying his best to act as though she was a regular customer.  
  
Phoebe looked at him. Indecision rose in her again. Did she really want to do this? Yes, part of her said, you deserve it. I can't, this is illegal! What, letting any Creepjob on the street fuck you for some money or food isn't! This is different! Just do it, Phoebes. Just do it. Just do it!  
  
She couldn't resist that voice. In most people it was a mental corrupter easily dismissed. But, for Phoebe, it was all too persuasive. Two years ago she had let a guy sleep with her for food. Since then, there had been others. She had let them mount her body for money. She needed it. Since Sidney's death (murder) she wasn't pulling in enough cash through begging to keep herself alive. Whoring had been the only way.  
  
But it just wasn't enough anymore. It seemed like there was no one left who would give her money out of pity or out of lust. She knew that she was on the brink of death. Phoebe knew it and could do nothing about it. She couldn't find a job, and she couldn't scrounge. What was she supposed to do?  
  
The voice gave her the answer. She had found a pistol a year ago and had bought bullets for it after a very profitable whore job. Phoebe had kept it all this time for defense. But the voice had other ideas. It would be so simple for her to go into some store and force whoever was working to give her money. But that's wrong! Wrong? If a man can steal a loaf of bread to feed his starving family, than a girl can steal some cash to feed her starving body. Do it. It's the only way. Do it!  
  
Phoebe pulled out the pistol tucked into the back of her jeans. Paul's forebodings had suddenly taken a turn into sheer terror.  
  
"Keep your hands up!" yelled Phoebe, her voice barely this side of sanity, "If I see your reach for the police alert button I'm gonna shoot you!"  
  
Paul complied automatically. His body quivered, his pores gave out sweat, and his legs became jelly, yet he kept his hands up.  
  
Phoebe walked towards the counter, keeping her gun focused on Paul's chest.  
  
"Listen closely," Phoebe said, no longer yelling. Instead she was practically hissing out the words, "I want all the money you have in the cash register. I want it in my hand, and I want you to do it quickly and quietly."  
  
Paul tried to look into Phoebe's eyes, to see if she was the sort of person who would kill a man. But all he could look at was the gun. He stared down into the barrel like it was a bottomless pit, and he was teetering at the brink of it.  
  
He pressed the button that made the cash register spring open. He began taking out the bills. All right, Phoebes, you're doing it. In just a moment you'll have the money and you'll be gone. Everything's going like you planned.  
  
"I have a girlfriend," said Paul, still taking out the money.  
  
Phoebe didn't say a word. She just looked at him and saw that his eyes were bordering on tears.  
  
"We're going to be married soon, as soon as we both graduate," he said, his voice starting to crack, "We're going to . . ."  
  
"Shut up! Just shut up!" shouted Phoebe.  
  
She didn't want to see this Paul as a person. She wasn't going to hurt him, but she was scaring the living hell out of him.  
  
"Why are you doing this to me?" he pleaded, and now he had stopped taking out the money. He was crying now and blubbering with fear.  
  
"Stop it!" yelled Phoebe, "Just . . ."  
  
"Don't kill me . . ." Paul begged, starting to kneel before Phoebe.  
  
". . . stop it!"  
  
A bang filled the Q-Mart. Paul didn't have time to scream, look shocked, or even gasp. The bullet burst through his forehead and into his brain. He died before he had the slightest idea what had happened.  
  
Phoebe didn't move, didn't say anything, or even think anything. She just watched the body fall to the floor, blood and brains spilling out of the hole she had made. He was gone. Paul was gone. He would never graduate from high school and marry his girlfriend. He would go to a spot of earth in the ground where he would rot until there was nothing left to rot.  
  
Phoebe ran. She ran out of the Q-Mart without taking the money. She ran across the street not caring if a car hit her or not.  
  
Killed him! Killed him!  
  
It was an accident!  
  
His parents will be crying. Don't you remember how you felt when your mom died, when Sidney died? That's how everyone who cared about him is going to feel. You've ruined their lives, and destroyed his. His soul was snuffed out because of you! All because of you!  
  
NO!  
  
Without thinking, Phoebe flung her self against an alley's brick wall. As her head crashed against it and she fell unconscious, the voices faded away. She didn't want to wake up ever again. As long as she just kept knocking her head against the wall, she wouldn't have to hear the voices. The voices which told her about all the people she had hurt. Sweet sleep. Sweet silence. 


End file.
